


House Call

by Sealie



Series: sga/traders [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-01
Updated: 2006-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover no' 2 [voyage par mer segment]<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	House Call

**Author's Note:**

> _**House Call (SGA/Traders xo) no' 2/10**_  
>  Rating: safe for brats  
> Spoilers: none  
> Betas: brain busting by the incomparable LKY and wonderfully detailed, exquisitely pertinent comments by klostes

**House Call**  
By Sealie

Carson jogged up the steps leading up to Rodney's house. It was certainly a nice little house, he mused, with a tiny garden at the front and a path edged with carefully tendered perennials leading up to the door. Rodney sat cross-legged on the grass, fingers in the strip of earth around the lawn. He was teasing out a stringy weed. Beside him lay a tray filled with loamy soil. Pausing a moment, Carson watched as Rodney carefully placed the weed in one of the neatly dug indentations in the tray.

“Hullo, Rodney, what are you doing?” Carson grinned – he had never in his wildest imaginings pictured Rodney gardening, wearing baggy cargo pants, an appallingly colourful Hawaiian shirt with a giant red hibiscus plastered on the front and a knitted cable cardigan.

Rodney blinked up at him and screwed up his nose. The man smiled guilelessly and then quickly looked away. His left incisor was slightly misaligned. Carson registered that uncapped tooth in a mouth which was not quite as twisted to the left as he was familiar with.

“Rodney said I could weed if I really wanted to. But it seems a little unfair to dig them out of their home just because Rodney doesn’t like them.”

“Ah. Rodney never said that he had a twin?” Carson marvelled.

The gardener shrugged minutely and returned to his weed, tenderly patting the soil around its stem.

“I work with Rodney at Cheyenne Mountain,” Carson volunteered.

“Where are you from?” The stranger cocked his head to the side, listening.

“I’m from--”

“Highlander. Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod. Scotland?”

“Errr… from Scotland, yes, but not from the Highlands.” Carson stepped over the flowerbeds.

“I know Flyboy. He works with Rodney too. He brought me chocolate,” the man said out of the blue. “The good stuff; it’s better than Hershey’s.”

“Anything’s better than Hershey’s,” Carson said darkly. The stranger hunched up at the tone. Carson took in the nervously flickering eyes never quite settling on him and the way that the man’s fingers twisted, rubbing his knuckles and tweaking his nails. He seemed cognizant but slightly detached. On albeit a short observation, the man seemed to have compensatory behaviours characteristic of a high functioning autistic person. Carson extended his hand, taking his time and moving carefully. “My name’s Carson Beckett.”

The man looked up at the hand and then glanced away, fixating on the grass under his crossed legs. “You’re the doctor.”

“Yes, I am. I’m a medical doctor and I have a Ph.D. in genetics.”

“My genetics are all right. You can’t have them.” He shuffled away on his bottom tucking his hands under his armpits, but he kept watch on Carson out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah.” Carson found a smile. “I understand. Is Rodney in?”

“He’s taking a nap. He said he was tired. He said his body clock said it was the middle of the night.”

Carson glanced at his watch, which was still set to Greenwich Mean Time. He had slipped neatly back into the twenty four hour clock, since back at home in Scotland night and day nearly matched the Atlantean rhythm. Returning to Colorado meant that it was really early in the morning and he wanted his bed.

“Oh, well, never mind. Will you tell him that I popped ‘round?”

“You should see him,” the stranger suddenly said out of the corner of his mouth.

“And why’s that?” Carson crouched.

Rodney’s cousin or brother -- Carson wondered -- scrambled to his feet putting a body length of distance between them. The man definitely didn’t like doctors, Carson noted ruefully.

“Rodney has a headache. He had a headache yesterday – like bands of metal caught in a vice around his forehead.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But I’m fine. Honest.” He nodded fervently. “I don’t need to see a doctor. But Rodney’s got a bad headache.”

“Okay.” Carson stood. “I’ll check on him.”

“The door’s open. I didn’t lock it. I have a key, but I was only going to the yard so I didn’t need to lock the door. But I have a key in case I got locked out.” He bounced on his toes, rocking to the left then the right to look around Carson. “Where is your black medical bag?”

“I don’t have a black medical bag,” Carson said easily, holding up his hands. “I have a backpack and occasionally I have a briefcase or two when I’m at work but I’m on holiday. I can still check on Rodney, though.”

“Oh, okay.” The man darted around Carson, reaching the door with a hop, skip and a bounce. As soon as he touched the door, the manic energy drained away. Carefully, ever so carefully, he opened the door. He raised a finger to his lips. “It’s a bad headache so we have to be quiet.”

“Son, a second.” Carson raised his hand. “I told you my name’s Carson. What’s yours?”

“Why? Why do you want to know?” He cocked his head to the side and scrutinised Carson as if he were reading answers written on his face. It was the first time that he had faced Carson directly.

“It’s just polite. I can’t call you ‘hey you’. I might need to ask you to get something for Rodney.”

Face screwed up and dismissing the question, the man crept into the house. Carson tiptoed behind the funny, little cavorting man. The interior was as he had imagined it. Rodney had filled it from floor to ceiling with books. That Rodney had kept this sanctum even though they had travelled billions of light years, spoke profoundly of inherent need for security. The house was warm, overly so, and migraine dark.

Rodney lay lengthwise along the sofa, arms straight by his side. Carson cracked a smile, the man always slept like he was in a coffin. Rodney snored, wuffling softly in the back of his throat.

As Carson set himself on the coffee table by the side of the couch, Rodney’s double shuffled uneasily by the arm, a whisper away from Rodney’s head.

“Grant,” he said suddenly. “Grant.”

“I’m sorry?” Carson asked softly.

“My name: Grant.”

“Oh.” Carson smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”

Grant smiled back bashfully and then looked at the floor.

Carson turned his attention to his possible patient. “Rodney?” he said softly.

Rodney screwed up his nose. With the utmost care, Grant brushed a finger tip over Rodney’s temple.

“I used to do this when he was a baby,” he confided, “when he was waking up. It stopped him crying.”

“You looked after Rodney?” Carson asked.

“Babysat? Toddlersat?” Grant grinned toothily. “Rodney’s my little cousin, he was my responsibility. When Auntie Ruthie and Uncle were fighting, someone had to look after him. Jeannie used run out and go and play with her friends, but I was too small and Rodney was very small… to have friends.” He drew tiny circles on Rodney’s temple. “Except us. Each other.”

Rodney mumbled and turned into the caress as the gentle wing of his eyebrow was mapped.

“Come on, Rodney, wakey, wakey,” Carson cajoled.

“Grant?” Rodney blinked sleepily.

“He liked having his tummy rubbed too,” Grant confided.

“Well, we’ll give that a miss,” Carson said with a smile.

“Carson? What? Eh?” Rodney sat up, awake and pissy.

“Should have rubbed his tummy,” Grant observed.

Rodney groaned massively and rubbed the deep line between his eyebrows.

“Oh, that is a doozy of a headache, isn’t it,” Carson observed.

“Where did you get your degree from?” Rodney growled. “Kellogg’s breakfast cereal box?”

“Hey.” Carson caught his wrist and catalogued the pulse. A little bit fast, working too hard, for someone just awoken. Rodney was pale, pale as a bleached dishrag. “Grant said you had a headache. Had one for a few days.”

Rodney grimaced. “I can’t shift it. Paracetamol, Ibuprofen… I even resorted to Excedrin. Evenly spaced,” he added cutting off Carson’s next question at the knees.

“Describe it,” Carson ordered.

“Nasty. Like a band over my forehead and it’s tightening. It’s a brain tumour, isn’t it?”

Carson caught Rodney’s face between his hands and peered in his eyes. “Calm. Calm.” He sniffed. “You’ve thrown up, haven’t you?”

Rodney turned even pastier at the thought. “Once, twice, three times this morning. I lost count.”

Carson gently pinched the skin on the back of Rodney’s hand, lifting it and then watching it ever so slowly ease back. And, most worryingly, for an ill Rodney he didn’t complain.

“Grant?” Carson began.

Grant was watching them with wide eyes. He was nibbling on his thumbnail.

“Grant,” Carson said again. “Have you had a headache? I need to know, it will help Rodney.”

Slowly, Grant nodded and then more emphatically: yes.

“Just today or a few days?”

Grant pulled his thumb from his mouth and slowly extended two fingers

“And you’ve been gardening a lot while Rodney’s been feeling poorly? The garden looks lovely, by the way.”

Grant nodded.

“Okay, right, we’re going to--,” Carson thought quickly: he didn’t know Colorado Springs that well since he had been based at Area 51 and Antarctica; he factored in driving in a strange area on the wrong side of the road; knowing his destination; the presence of known, knowledgeable, competent staff; he knew what equipment was readily available and the miniscule possibility that it was infectious and related to off world activities. “--we’re going to the SGC and the infirmary.”

“What!” Rodney said stridently. “We can’t take Grant to the SGC.”

“Under my medical recommendation, we can,” Carson said strongly, but he softened his tone. “Grant?”

“Uhuh?”

“Would you like to get your… uhm… comfort toy, if you have such a thing, and a book?”

“He’s not a moron,” Rodney growled.

“Rodney,” Carson said quellingly. “Is there something that Grant should bring with us to the SGC?”

“Grant--” Rodney rubbed his forehead, hard, “--get your blanket. We’re going to see where I work when I’m in the United States.”

For a heartbeat it looked like Grant was going to balk, but abruptly he spun away.

“What’s the matter with us, Carson?” Rodney demanded. “I guessed it was the ‘flu or something.”

“Probably is just the ‘flu, but let’s just err on the safe side shall we?” Deftly, he helped a pale and sweaty Rodney to his feet. “Slippers?”

“What?” Rodney swallowed harshly.

“Uhm, you call ‘em houseshoes?”

“Oh yeah, I know.” Rodney used his toes to pull out a pair of slippers from under the sofa. Once Rodney had pushed his feet into them, Carson carefully shepherded him to the door.

“I can’t go like this!” Rodney gestured at his ratty old, faded sweat shirt and baggy trousers.

“I’m going to have you in a medical gown inside of thirty minutes, so I wouldn’t let it bother you.” Carson patted his back. “Now, where are your door keys and wallet?”

~*~

“Both hands on the wheel!” Rodney insisted, eyes firmly closed as he hunched over the plastic shopping bag in his lap.

Carson fired an annoyed glare at the man -- backseat driver even with his eyes closed -- as he manhandled the silly automatic car towards Cheyenne Mountain and kept up a conversation with Dr. Lam on his cell phone. Grant was rocking, silently in the back, securely buckled in and the door child locks engaged.

He tossed his cell phone into the passenger’s footwell as he headed up the road to the Cheyenne complex. Carson breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled up to the security booth. Three SFPs stood at the barrier. Carson had his security clearance card and Rodney’s on his lap. He pushed them up against the side window, but did not roll it down.

“And the passenger, Dr. Beckett?” the SFP asked.

“Mr. Grant Jansky, Dr. McKay’s cousin – he also needs to be checked out.”

The SFP waved them through. “Dr. Lam is waiting by the main entrance.”

“Thank you.” Carson scowled at the gear stick checking it was still in ‘D’ mode before pressing on the accelerator. He hated automatics; gear driven cars were much more responsive. He peeled through the open gate and headed straight for the tunnel, focussed on reaching the second security gate and medical aid. It was a straight drive from A to B, he picked up a little bit too much speed.

A hundred meters inside the tunnel, Carson slammed the brakes on and skidded to a halt next to the medical team. Reaching over he popped open Rodney’s door. Lam was waiting for him with a nonrebreather mask supplying 100% oxygen.

“What?” Rodney protested, flailing, as it was fitted over his nose and mouth.

“Just relax, Rodney,” Carson directed, catching his hand as it reached for the mask.

“What’s happening?” Grant demanded loudly. He fumbled at his seatbelt.

Carson turned, focusing on his second patient. “This is Dr. Lam, she’s a friend and a lovely person. She’ll be looking after your Rodney.”

Grant’s eyes darted nervously cataloging the high tunnel overhead, the many people now ringing the car and the actinic bright lights. Carson quickly checked that Dr. Lam had Rodney in hand and then scrambled out of the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. Body checking Grant, he kept him in the car. The last thing he wanted was the man bolting and being taken down by an over enthusiastic marine.

“Hey, hey,” Carson soothed. Another member of the SGC medical staff joined him on the driver’s side of the car, squatting and unfurling a mask with an oxygen canister. Focused mainly on Rodney’s cousin, Carson raised a hand, warding the young woman off. She retreated obediently, moving out of Grant’s line of sight.

“I want Rodney,” Grant demanded.

Rodney yanked off his mask. “Grant, do what Carson tells you to. We’ll be together. Carson won’t separate us. Will you?” Rodney finished with a glare.

“Come on, Grant.” Carson opened his hands, palms up.

Grant breathed in and out harshly.

“We need to go with Rodney,” Carson cajoled, waiting.

Hesitantly, Grant placed his own long fingered hand on Carson’s, and then, balled up blanket clutched to his chest, slowly clambered out of the car.

“We’re going to use the wheelchair.” Carson waved the second nurse waiting at the back of the car forwards. “I know you probably don’t need one.” He smiled reassuringly as he guided Grant into the chair.

Grant swallowed nervously and scrunched up tightly into a ball. Carson took the mask from the woman and checked it and the canister.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Rodney demanded from the other side of the blue Taurus. “Not until Grant’s ready.”

“This is a mask. It’s got oxygen in it. You breathe through it.” Carson held the plastic face-piece a hairsbreadth over his own face demonstrating. “Rodney has one. You get to have one.”

Grant took the mask and cautiously held it over his face. He looked up begging for reassurance.

“Excellent.” Carson patted his knee. “Right, let’s go for a little ride.”

~*~

  
“I want: CBC; venous carboxyhemoglobin and arterial blood gases -- double check the lactic acidosis results,” Carson ordered as Rodney was transferred to a bed.

Rodney glared at all and sundry as two burly nurses descended on him.

“I want one litre normal saline at seventy five ml per hour,” Carson followed up as he helped Grant onto another treatment bed.

“Yes, Dr. Beckett,” the largest nurse said in a surprisingly quiet voice, for such a large man.

“You have base’s hyperbaric chamber ready?” Carson asked Dr. Lam.

“Yes, as soon as the diagnosis is confirmed,” Dr. Lam said flatly. “I concur that an infectious agent is unlikely; it would have a curious incubation period. Perhaps a spinal tap is in order.”

“Let’s get the CBC and the COHb results first, shall we.” Carson chanced a shy smile at his fellow physician, who seemed to be glaring at him a tad defensively.

“Of course.”

Carson clicked his fingers at the nurse dealing with Rodney. “I want a fingerstick glucose test; we need to rule out hypoglycemia complications.”

“Ow!” Rodney wrenched his hand away from the nurse trying to insert a needle in his wrist and suddenly Carson had his hands full with a panicking Grant bolting off his bed.

“Ssshh. Ssssh.” Carson tried to corral the man, but in a move worthy of any rugby winger, Grant ducked and dodged around him. The harsh sounds of his distressed breathing echoed around the room. Scrambling across the floor, Grant fetched up in the corner of the room. Spinning around, he then scurried along side the wall, knocking over an EKG unit and a tray of supplies to the floor in his panic.

“Rodney!” Grant begged.

Rodney swore loudly and tried get away from under the mask and the nurses prepping him for an IV and multiple blood tests.

“Calm!” an unfamiliar voice boomed.

Everyone froze, including Grant. A General stood silhouetted in the infirmary door way, tall and a larger presence than his girth, he commanded respect. A skinnier, taller, newly minted Lieutenant-Colonel stepped out from behind the general.

“Hey, Squirrel.” Sheppard held an arm out and Grant arrowed under the limb as if shot from a cannon. Rocking under Grant’s heavier weight, Sheppard simply wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him. Then he shrugged and cocked a smile at the General, but he didn’t let go.

“Major Sheppard, I’m bloody well glad to see you,” Carson said.

“Hey, Carson, what’s up? I got a call saying I should come to the infirmary. And you were bringing in Dr. McKay and Grant, here.”

“Yes, Grant told me that you’d been visiting,” Carson said. “I just need to check you, just in case.”

Rodney sat on his gurney, legs hanging over the side, grimacing as he held the nonrebreather mask over his nose and mouth. The detritus of his own, failed, escape attempt lay about him – discarded IV port and abandoned blood pressure cuff. The burly nurse had a firm grip on his wrist and was attempting to reinsert a needle. Leaning tiredly, with his shirt pushed up over his shoulders, Dr. Lam was behind him listening to his lungs.

“Carson thinks that we’ve got carbon monoxide poisoning,” he grumbled under the mask. “Judging from the tests he’s got lined up.”

“I think that it’s a good possibility,” Carson clarified, “but let’s see the COHb results first.”

Sheppard nodded at the bed and then looked pointedly at Grant clinging to him like a limpet. Carson nodded.

“Come on, Squirrel, we need to get you and Rodney checked out.” Waddling somewhat, he managed to sit on a gurney with Grant still attached.

Carson smiled until he felt his dimples. “So how’s about I take some blood from Major – sorry – Lieutenant-Colonel Sheppard, first, so you can see that there’s nothing to worry about, Grant.”

Sheppard rolled his eyes heavenward, but proffered his arm without a word of complaint.

~*~

The door closed on the hyperbaric chamber, sealing in Rodney, Grant, John and the unit’s trained medic inside. Carson peered through the round, double glazed window and wiggled his fingers. Grant waved shyly back at him. Two bunks were set on either side of the Winnebago sized unit. Rodney lay on one, eyes tightly closed and palm splayed over his face. John and Grant sat on the opposite bunk. John already looked a little bored. The technician stood to check the chamber’s internal systems. Grant watched intrigued, fingers twitching as a laptop was powered up.

“Dr. Beckett,” General Landry said soberly, “a word?”

Slowly, Carson turned from the window. “Yes, sir?”

“I wonder whether breaking security protocols and bringing Mr. Jansky to the SGC was really necessary?”

Carson straightened. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Would you care to explain? Dr. Lam tells me that it was highly unlikely that this was a contagion from the Pegasus Galaxy.”

“Well, if you’d spent any time there, you’d know that anything is possible in the Pegasus Galaxy.” He smiled softening the criticism. “To be frank, your Dr. Lam is correct that the risk was minimal: all personal had been thoroughly checked before going off base after we’d returned from Atlantis. If it was an infectious agent it had a peculiar incubation period to affect both Dr. McKay after a prolonged period and then Grant in a matter of days. But it was entirely possibly that we were dealing with a pathogen which had been previously dormant.”

“But you suspected carbon monoxide poisoning from the outset.”

“After Rodney described his headache: yes. His house is rather old. The heating hadn’t been used for over a year. Grant showed similar signs, but reduced, because he had been working outside.”

“So why bring them here?” Landry said neutrally.

Carson reached back and patted the hyperbaric chamber. “I knew that this was here. Carbon monoxide poisoning can be quite insidious and research suggests that the intracellular uptake of carbon monoxide is a mechanism for neurological damage.” It behooved Carson to continue justifying his decision as Landry folded his arms over his chest and met the detail with a stoic expression. “Rodney also has a tendency to hyperglycaemia which can exacerbate central nervous system damage due carbon monoxide poisoning. Rodney presented with a COHb of thirty six percent which is quite serious. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy has been shown to significantly reduce the risk of cognitive problems further down the line.”

“The man’s intellect is a national treasure,” Landry said dryly.

Carson put his finger to his lips. “Don’t let Rodney hear you say that. We’d never hear the end of it.”

“He’s lucky that you dropped by.”

“Aye, that he is.” Carson smiled sublimely.

“Okay, Dr. Beckett.” Humming introspectively under his breath, General Landry took his leave with a respectful nod.

Carson peered back through the window. It wasn’t necessary for Grant and John to be tucked up inside the chamber, but it would prevent both Grant and Rodney from panicking and it kept them all corralled where he could keep an eye on them.

Satisfied on many levels, Carson smiled.

~*~

epilogue

“How are you feeling, Rodney?” John asked.

Rodney lay on the lower bunk, stretched out and an IV stuck in the back of his hand. He cracked open an eye. “I’m dy--,” he spotted his cousin, “--much better, thank you.”

“We’ll be doing three hyperbaric treatments evenly spread over a twenty-four hour period,” the medic monitoring Rodney’s pulse suddenly spoke, his voice loud in the chamber. Pushing frameless glasses up his nose, he made note of the readings from the bank of gauges above Rodney’s head.

“What pressure?” Rodney snapped.

“We’ll only be increasing the pressure to twice normal atmospheric pressure.” The young man moved to the back of the chamber.

Rodney scowled at the words and looked like he was going to pontificate on the use of hyperbaric oxygen therapy.

“You look much better, Rodney. You’ve got some colour,” John noted quickly.

“Thank you for that observation.” Rodney thudded his head back on his pillow.

“Dr. McKay.” The medic returned with a transparent plastic hood. “We need place this over your head to ensure that you receive a hundred percent oxygen.”

“Get me some more pillows,” Rodney dictated.

“That’s not necessary, sir.” The head of the bunk ratcheted up and Rodney gracelessly submitted to having what amounted to a plastic bag attached to a hose placed over his head.

“Hey, Grant, how are you doing?” John asked.

Grant unfurled from his ball at the far end of their shared bunk. “Today’s just been a little bit too stressful. I don’t like it.”

“Look on the bright side, Grant,” John smiled winningly. “If you hadn’t been rescuing the weeds yesterday and today, you would have needed to try that fetching hood.”

Grant brightened, but then mercurially shifted mood and asked, “What about Mr. Jinx?”

“What? Rodney’s cat?”

“Do cats get carbon monoxide poisoning?”

John almost shrugged and managed not to roll his eyes. “I guess so, but Mr. Jinx probably was out most of the day. He goes out, doesn’t he?”

Grant nodded wisely. “He seems fine. But he’s sleeping so I can’t tell.”

“What?”

Grant carefully opened the balled up blanket that he had kept close through the whole ordeal to reveal a – John hoped – peacefully sleeping Mr. Jinx.

“Oh, uhm.” Dreading that Grant was carrying around a smothered, dead cat, John carefully stroked Jinx’s head and side. Grant blinked up at him, waiting for him to make it all right. John continued to keep up the smile as he waited for a sign, any sign.

The tiny ribs moved and John felt a cat-fast heartbeat against his fingertips.

“Mr. Jinx is fine, Grant,” John said honestly.

Grant beamed like he had been given Christmas and Easter both at once.

“That really shouldn’t be in here,” the medic said.

John glanced at the horrified looking medic and shrugged puckishly. “I guess he’s here for the duration – it’s not like we can open the door.”

“Hey,” Rodney said absently, waving a finger idly in the air, “leastwise it’s Grant and Jinx. It could have been my cousin Emmett and Betty.”

Grant nodded enthusiastically. “You never know what kind of creature Emmett’s got tucked down his pants.”

John crossed his legs automatically.

Rodney mumbled, “Grant’s exaggerating, it’s normally a snake.”

John shook his head, the McKay family were pretty weird.

 _fin_   



End file.
